SayWhatClub September 2007 Newsletter

It was widely known for years that many people of other nations were entering the United States with visitors' visas, and refusing to leave. Others sneaked across the border from all parts of Central and South America, and the largest group from our next-door neighbor, Mexico.

This year when this illegal group of people staged protests against deportation in several states, TV coverage allowed us to see their staggering numbers. And that isn't counting those who stayed at home.

America is a wonderful country, we can all agree on that. A democratic society can be nothing less. But we have laws to follow and penalties to pay when we do not follow them. And it is against the law to enter this country through the back door.

The argument from the farming community and the hotels, motels and sweatshops is that American citizens will not do the work these people accept, so new laws should be written for them to remain in place.

Many members here in the SayWhatClub work in education, social services such as the welfare department and, where I was employed, a local housing authority's Section 8 program.

We have watched our coffers being drained to feed, house and give free medical attention to these uninvited people. Because businesses pay them low wages, they qualify for rent subsidies, food stamps and the like.

Children of illegals are in our colleges on grants because of the low income of their parents. They graduate owing nothing, while children of American workers who have paid taxes all of their lives qualify for college loans that take years to pay off. Is it fair to us? Of course it is not. And that is where the problem lies.

How many people know that here in California, some people are on welfare, with a house full of children, qualifying as handicapped? Why? Because they do not speak English!

We are up in arms here in California because of the large Spanish-speaking population. Most employers for the first time are seeking bilingual applicants to fill their open positions. That is not only unfair to black people, but now white people will be learning how it feels to be discriminated against.

There is a town in Texas, near the Mexican border, that has made Spanish the legal language. They did so because most of the town's people do not speak English. Are the residents legal citizens? Of course not.

I have many Spanish friends who are citizens but have family members who are illegal, and they are willing to circumvent the law to keep them here. One even asked me to notarize a statement that I had known their relative for over fifteen years. But I refused. I lost some friendship ground there, but I had to think of the penalty I would have to pay if it were found out that I had lied. And secondly, I would not think of sponsoring anyone, because their medical needs would have to come out of my pocket.

My vote, if asked, would go toward deportation of anyone who disrespected the entry law. It may sound cold-hearted, discriminatory and bigoted, but it is not so. We cannot keep giving free rides to every, or anyone who sneaks into this country illegally. It has got to stop and soon.

There is another illegal way some people have entered this country. They have only to say they have escaped religious or political persecution and they are given a social security card, and citizenship, almost on the spot.

This is one of the hardest pieces for me to write, and I held off from tackling it because to write about it means living some of the tragic happenings in my life. I would rather keep trying to forget. Racism, and the pain and sorrow it has caused me and my people, is still alive and well.

Australia has a holiday each year called Forgiveness Day. It is their way of saying, they are sorry to have treated the Aborigines with less dignity and respect than they deserved. They have done wonderfully well to see that every effort is made to mainstream them into every aspect of the country's daily lives and activities.

It would be nice if the U.S. had that kind of day, but America will never say, "I am sorry." Some might call Dr. Martin Luther King's birthday that day, but it will never be so.

The Voting Rights Bill is the bill that gives minorities the right to vote. It has never been fully ratified, only extended time and time again. Each president after Lyndon Johnson signed it, and it has been extended. This year that extension ends. What will happen to minority votes if it is not extended? Will they remain in the ballot boxes or be destroyed in some southern states as they were in the last presidential election? Only time will tell.

There are many people who refuse to believe the Holocaust really happened, or who believe that slaves toiling in the hot, baking sun from daybreak to sundown sang in the fields because they were happy. When they were not allowed to speak the language of their country, they used music to send coded messages.

I will not forget the fact that when I was twelve years old, in 1942, my sisters and I were not allowed to tour the White House because black people were not permitted.

I will not forget that I was humiliated at age 18 when I, a graduate of a New York City high school, had to take a written test to show that I was able to read.

I will not forget that when visiting my grandparents in Georgia for the first time I had to keep telling my grandmother I knew my shoe size. Perplexed at why she would keep asking me that, I soon found that if I tried on the shoes and they didn't fit, she would still have to buy them.

I will not forget that as a teenager, my family and I could go to Bear Mountain amusement park but we could not go into the swimming pool because we were black.

I will not forget that a former manager in one of the housing authority offices where I worked found it disturbing that I sounded like her sister-in-law, who was Jewish. I asked her how old her SIL was, and when she told me, knowing I was older than she was, I had this to say:

"Your sister-in-law and I are both New Yorkers, so it is not strange that we both have the same accent. But being the older, I do not sound like her. She sounds like me." I turned and walked away. I was good at the job I was doing, and I was not a chronic absentee, so there was little she could hold against me. We were cordial after that, but it was more uncomfortable for her than it was for me.

I ventured to say while posting online once, that racism was the culture of this country. One person disagreed with me and said it was a moral issue, not the culture. I know neither of us is willing to change our belief but we are still friends, and that is a good thing.

Vernon Jordan, a friend and confidant of President Clinton, used to chauffeur for a banker in his hometown in the South, and from there he went off to college. When he returned home one spring break, he chauffeured again for the same man. One day it took the banker a bit longer to transact his business so rather than sit in a hot car waiting for him, Vernon took out his book and, resting against the fender of the car, began to read. When the banker approached him, he had a look of amazement on his face and said aloud, "Vernon can read!" Vernon realized then and there that it will always be hard for some white people to believe that black people can read. Rather than be angry, Vernon got a big laugh out of it. Here he was about to graduate college, and this man was surprised that he actually knew how to read. In his adult years, Vernon Jordan wrote a book that I still treasure, because of that story. And the name of the book is -- are you ready for this? -- "VERNON CAN READ."

It is my dream to live long enough to see a world where achievement matters and racial prejudice is a thing of the past. But who am I kidding? It will never happen, not in my lifetime.

Trust me, I just touched lightly on some of the things I had to endure because my skin is black. Some things need to stay in the dark recesses of the mind, where they belong. Let me put it this way, as Adlai Stevenson said when he lost the bid for the presidency. "It hurt too much to laugh, and I am too big to cry."

Today I am often asked the question, "Which college did you graduate from?" I know it is because I do not pepper my conversation with "dees," "dems" "does" and "I ain't." Fractured English is all some think that black people know. I am a product of a New York education, plain and simple. Schools used to be a place to learn in my day.